Part 2 (2/2)
”Undine?”
”Exactly--yes. And it really seems these poor creatures are Immortal, Mr. Melville--at least within limits--creatures born of the elements and resolved into the elements again--and just as it is in the story--there's always a something--they have no Souls! No Souls at all! Nothing! And the poor child feels it. She feels it dreadfully. But in order to _get_ souls, Mr. Melville, you know they have to come into the world of men.
At least so they believe down there. And so she has come to Folkestone.
To get a soul. Of course that's her great object, Mr. Melville, but she's not at all fanatical or silly about it. Any more than _we_ are. Of course _we_--people who feel deeply----”
”Of course,” said my cousin Melville, with, I know, a momentary expression of profound gravity, drooping eyelids and a hushed voice. For my cousin does a good deal with his soul, one way and another.
”And she feels that if she comes to earth at all,” said Mrs. Bunting, ”she _must_ come among _nice_ people and in a nice way. One can understand her feeling like that. But imagine her difficulties! To be a mere cause of public excitement, and silly paragraphs in the silly season, to be made a sort of show of, in fact--she doesn't want _any_ of it,” added Mrs. Bunting, with the emphasis of both hands.
”What _does_ she want?” asked my cousin Melville.
”She wants to be treated exactly like a human being, to _be_ a human being, just like you or me. And she asks to stay with us, to be one of our family, and to learn how we live. She has asked me to advise her what books to read that are really nice, and where she can get a dress-maker, and how she can find a clergyman to sit under who would really be likely to understand her case, and everything. She wants me to advise her about it all. She wants to put herself altogether in my hands. And she asked it all so nicely and sweetly. She wants me to advise her about it all.”
”Um,” said my cousin Melville.
”You should have heard her!” cried Mrs. Bunting.
”Practically it's another daughter,” he reflected.
”Yes,” said Mrs. Bunting, ”and even that did not frighten me. She admitted as much.”
”Still----”
He took a step.
”She has means?” he inquired abruptly.
”Ample. She told me there was a box. She said it was moored at the end of a groin, and accordingly dear Randolph watched all through luncheon, and afterwards, when they could wade out and reach the end of the rope that tied it, he and Fred pulled it in and helped Fitch and the coachman carry it up. It's a curious little box for a lady to have, well made, of course, but of wood, with a s.h.i.+p painted on the top and the name of 'Tom' cut in it roughly with a knife; but, as she says, leather simply will _not_ last down there, and one has to put up with what one can get; and the great thing is it's _full_, perfectly full, of gold coins and things. Yes, gold--and diamonds, Mr. Melville. You know Randolph understands something-- Yes, well he says that box--oh!
I couldn't tell you _how_ much it isn't worth! And all the gold things with just a sort of faint reddy touch.... But anyhow, she is rich, as well as charming and beautiful. And really you know, Mr. Melville, altogether-- Well, I'm going to help her, just as much as ever I can.
Practically, she's to be our paying guest. As you know--it's no great secret between _us_--Adeline-- Yes.... She'll be the same. And I shall bring her out and introduce her to people and so forth. It will be a great help. And for everyone except just a few intimate friends, she is to be just a human being who happens to be an invalid--temporarily an invalid--and we are going to engage a good, trustworthy woman--the sort of woman who isn't astonished at anything, you know--they're a little expensive but they're to be got even nowadays--who will be her maid--and make her dresses, her skirts at any rate--and we shall dress her in long skirts--and throw something over It, you know----”
”Over----?”
”The tail, you know.”
My cousin Melville said ”Precisely!” with his head and eyebrows. But that was the point that hadn't been clear to him so far, and it took his breath away. Positively--a tail! All sorts of incorrect theories went by the board. Somehow he felt this was a topic not to be too urgently pursued. But he and Mrs. Bunting were old friends.
”And she really has ... a tail?” he asked.
”Like the tail of a big mackerel,” said Mrs. Bunting, and he asked no more.
”It's a most extraordinary situation,” he said.
”But what else _could_ I do?” asked Mrs. Bunting.
”Of course the thing's a tremendous experiment,” said my cousin Melville, and repeated quite inadvertently, ”_a tail!_”
Clear and vivid before his eyes, obstructing absolutely the advance of his thoughts, were the s.h.i.+ny clear lines, the oily black, the green and purple and silver, and the easy expansiveness of a mackerel's termination.
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